


In Dreams

by OfThemyscira



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, EXTREME Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-05-23 18:05:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14939226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfThemyscira/pseuds/OfThemyscira
Summary: “I woke still weak a year before I joined you.”A first meeting, but under different circumstances.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve omitted my Lavellan’s given name to make it easier to imagine your own, but she kind of breaks canon, so... sorry.
> 
> Also, I realize that Dreamer mages are capable of casting proper magic. I have chosen to ignore that in regards to this Lavellan, simply because I am fond of shields.

The six-eyed wolf stared from across her camp.

Her first thought was that she must be dreaming; and then, belatedly, she realized she _was_ dreaming. She had been conversing with Devotion—where had it gone? Had it fled, or had the creature… banished it, somehow?

She stared back.

What was one supposed to do when the _Dread Wolf_ visited their dreams?

“… Andaran atish’an,” she greeted, hesitantly. The wolf huffed and arranged itself so that it was comfortably lying down.

And it stared.

 

It was waiting for her when she fell asleep on the second night. Staring. Again.

She narrowed her eyes. The previous morning, she had entertained the idea of it simply being a spirit that had chosen to manifest as Fen’Harel. It was certainly more likely.

But… why? And it did not explain Devotion’s absence.

She huffed, finally. “Andaran atish’an,” she repeated. The beast merely stared back at her.

Very well. She was learned in silence.

 

Devotion returned to her on the third night, and _somehow_ it did not occur to her to ask about its disappearance (and the wolf) until she had already woken up.

 

The fourth night began with an ordinary dream. She almost would have wondered if _she_ had conjured the image of the Dread Wolf accidentally, for… whatever reason.

And then she was pulled from it, back to the dream campsite, where it waited.

And stared. Very well.

She resigned herself to its game, settled into a comfortable position and willed a block of wood and a carving knife into her hands.

“I have a question,” it finally said after what had probably been an hour. She looked up, simultaneously unnerved and relieved.

“I have one as well,” she blurted before she could stop herself.

Hopefully that grin was amusement. “I would imagine you have several.” Wonderful. It was witty. At her nod, it continued, “A game, then? A trade of answers for answers?”

She narrowed her eyes. “ _Only_ answers?” She had never been formally trained, as her clan had only proper mages, no Dreamers, but she was no fool. Exact wording was crucial in the Fade.

That damn grin. She almost swore she heard a chuckle, too. “I am not interested in possessing you, no.”

“Hmm,” she said.

Well… Why not?

“Very well,” she told it, “but I am old, and will not be amused if you try anything.” Fifty was barely old to mortals, and no doubt whatever this creature was would consider her an infant, but “almost old” just did not carry the same authority.

Fortunately, it did not point this discrepancy out. Instead, it inclined its head and said, “You may ask your question first.”

She looked down. At some point she had forgotten about the carving, as her tools were no longer in her hands. She imagined instead a quarterstaff, and rose to practice its motions. “Are you really Fen’Harel, or are you a spirit who chooses to manifest that way?” she asked as she stretched.

It cocked its head. “Are the two mutually exclusive?” it wondered, and though it did not grin that time, she swore there was something mischievous in its expression.

She huffed her exasperation before she thought better of it. “I would say you must be a spirit to be this vexing, but if I remember, that is what they say of the Dread Wolf.”

It really did laugh that time, and she was unnerved to realize that it was not an unpleasant sound.

“My question has two parts,” it said, and because they were in the Fade and probably it was very powerful, she thought nothing of the fact that it was dodging her question. She motioned for him to continue. “You wear the vallaslin. The Dalish clan some miles away; it is yours?” She nodded. “So, then, why do you travel separately?”

Ah. The few humans she had met, when they were closer to the outskirts of the Wilds, had also wondered this. She supposed it was fair; it was strange enough. Certainly even other Dalish might find it odd.

“It is not because I am a Dreamer, if you were wondering,” she said quickly. “I have had… many disagreements with our Keeper. Also, my father was a city elf. But because I am one of the clan’s best warriors, it would hurt our security if I left properly. I travel ahead of them and warn them of danger. Sometimes they call me back to protect them. This scar—” she pointed to the faded claw marks on the left side of her face, running from the corner of her lip to her cheekbone, “—was from a rabid bear that I stopped from reaching the aravels.” (Usually she left the scar out of the explanation, but this was the Fade and her inhibitions were mysteriously lesser.)

At some point, the quarterstaff had turned to a sword and shield, and she thought she felt Devotion’s presence somewhere nearby.

The wolf inclined his head. “You are most unusual,” it said after a moment. It sounded like a compliment. When it did not continue, she took it for a sign to ask her next question.

“So, then, why are you here?”

“You should be more careful with wording,” it suggested. “Many spirits would tell you why they are here, in the Arbor Wilds, rather than here, in your dream. But I am not so troublesome. To answer your question, mere curiosity.”

She stopped her motions with the weapons and frowned. “And the silence these past few nights?”

It grinned. “That is another question.”

‘Not so troublesome’? Vexing thing. “Ask, then.”

 

Every few nights, the… wolf… spirit-thing came to her, simply to talk. She welcomed its company; it did not seem to want anything from her (though it often seemed very distracted), and most nights she only had Devotion or some other adventurous spirit. Devotion often joined them.

“How do you pass the time, on your own?” the wolf asked once, while she was laughing at something it had said.

“I have many hobbies,” she told it.

“Such as…?”

“You have seen many of them here,” she said again. Being dodgy was amusing, for the beast itself had a penchant for avoiding her more specific questions about it.

It _pouted_. It could say whatever it wanted, but that was definitely a pout. “Very well,” she said, taking mercy on it. “I sing.”

 

After many months, she had come to address it as “lethallin,” and it responded in kind.

 

She had known the wolf for nearly a year when the Conclave was called. Deshanna had been communicating with another clan, who had told her of it, and of the clan’s intention to send an observer.

Naturally, then, _she_ was to be sent for Clan Lavellan.

“I cannot recommend this,” the wolf told her, two nights before her departure. She raised a brow.

“I know the humans and the Templars are dangerous, but this will determine the fate of mages,” she said. “Perhaps… if the Circle is dissolved, I could find proper training.”

“You do not _need_ proper training!” it growled, bristling, and he was surprised by its ferocity. “You have mastered your ability to enter the Fade on your own. If you are truly so curious about ‘proper’ magic, _I_ could teach you!”

She smiled. “It was only a suggestion to make the prospect of going sound better. I see it did not work.”

“It did not.”

“I could teach about the Fade, then,” she offered, and it sighed.

“Why you? Didn’t you say yourself that as one of your clan’s best warriors, you are weakening them by leaving?” it pressed.

“Who would venture into the Arbor Wilds—even the outskirts—at a time like this?” she countered.

“Rabid bear,” it reminded her.

She narrowed her eyes. “You _really_ don’t want me spying on this Conclave,” she said. “Is—is something going to happen, that I don’t know about?”

It stared.

Back to this again. She raised an eyebrow and stared back.

“I… do not know,” it finally admitted. “I cannot say. But—this is very dangerous, lethallan. I would not want you there.”

She sighed, and took its face into her hands. “I must go, dear friend. This Conclave could change Thedas for the better—or the worse. If it is the latter, I must warn my clan to retreat further into the Wilds, away from the humans.”

It sighed as well, leaning into her. “It is sound logic, I cannot argue. I only…” It trailed off, looking suddenly distant. “I cannot say,” it said again.

She smiled, and patted its back. “The Frostbacks are not so far from here,” she said. “You could check on me in dreams, if you are so worried.”

“Of course,” it said quickly. “And so many mages in one place will attract… ill-inclined spirits. I will ward them off of you.”

“Thank you, lethallin.” It did not occur to her that it was suddenly speaking like it was not _also_ a spirit. “Now, do not look so upset. There is still another night before I leave—let us shape the Fade into something more enjoyable.”

 

The wolf was true to its word, and in fact visited her _every_ night after her arrival (and two nights on the journey). It actually was quite endearing. Its company had a way of making her feel decades younger, though part of that may have been owed to her previous loneliness. Devotion was an old friend, but spirits tended to be very singular in their traits and habits. That left the implication that the wily wolf was _not_ a spirit, which she did not like to dwell on.

And then the sky was torn open.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never intended to continue this, but, well... shit.

She had never been cold before. The lowest that the temperature had ever dropped in the Wilds was best described as lukewarm. Shivering, she clutched the fur-lined wrap tighter around her shoulders.

She was not _entirely_ unfamiliar with human settlements. It felt like a lifetime ago, now, but she’d gone north to look for her mother after the bear killed her father. This was very different from Orlais, though. The villages she’d seen were larger and less utilitarian. Surrounded by tents and inhabited by soldiers, Haven looked like the military encampment it was, but there were remnants of the hearth it had been before.

One of the Revered Mothers cleared the steps with a shovel every few hours, but there was still a light dusting of snow on them, so she trod slowly. Solas saw her before she reached the top.

“Herald,” he greeted. She winced at the humans’ title.

“Hello, Solas. Please don’t call me that,” she said. “Lavellan will do.” He nodded.

“Very well, then—Lavellan. Do you need something?” Her gloved fingers tightened around the wrap again. She had only known him for a few days; she did not know how he would react to her request.

“Yes. Cassandra said you are a dreamer mage,” she started, turning her gaze to the Chantry. “How is your tolerance of spirits?”

His short laugh startled her. “Almost certainly higher than you’re expecting.” She studied him—he did not seem to be mocking her—and nodded, steeling herself with a breath.

“I need your help, then. I have a friend in the Fade. Those nights I was unconscious, I couldn’t control my dreams, but now I have been looking for hi—it. It’s nowhere to be found. I am worried that the Breach has corrupted it,” she said.

Solas had a strange expression as he watched her. He leaned into his staff.

“What manner of spirit is it, and why do you call it ‘him’?” he asked, eyes dancing. She scowled, and pointed a warning finger at him.

“Don’t laugh. I’m older than you,” she said. “But that’s the problem: I don’t know. He’s secretive. I don’t even know his name. I just call him _lethallin_. I think he magicked me so I never thought too hard about it, but now, with this thing on my hand—He appears to me as the—”

“Herald!” Cassandra called as she approached, stopping in front of them. “You are needed in the war chamber.”

She glanced between her and Solas, whose expression was still unreadable. “Fen’Harel. The Dread Wolf,” she said quietly. “I’ll tell you more later.”

She felt his eyes on her back as she crossed the way to the Chantry. Suddenly she noticed the cold again and shivered.

There was not a “later.” Cassandra’s meeting took up the rest of the evening, so they dined as they talked, and retired to bed when they finished. The sun had set.

 

The elven girl played a game with her mother while the father watched on. Their words were hazy and didn’t make sense to her ears, but their voices and faces were clear. The mother was the most beautiful woman she had ever seen; tall and dark, with thick, straight hair pinned out of her face.

She watched the family from a distance. “Your mother?” the wolf said beside her as the child laughed at something her father said. She nodded.

“Sanoh. And my father, Mahanon. I’m getting old. I can’t remember their faces well anymore, but the Fade doesn’t forget,” she said.

Then she realized he was there.

She shoved him, and then pulled him back into a tight embrace. “Where have you _been_?” she whispered. He nuzzled her shoulder.

“I could not get to you. The magic on your hand is like a beacon in the Fade. Spirits are clamoring to get to it—between it and the Breach, I needed time to amass enough power to cast wards. Your dreams should be less crowded now.”

She pulled away. “And that’s another thing. You’re the actual Dread Wolf, aren’t you? And you used your magic to distract me from it,” she accused.

“I cannot answer that,” he said quickly, and then grimaced, realizing that was, itself, an answer. “Does it change anything?”

Did it? She studied him, frowning.

She remembered the stories her mother used to tell. Fen’Harel never seemed so bad in those. It had infuriated the Keeper, the one before Deshanna, but no matter what history he’d tried to teach her afterwards, she always thought back to her mother’s.

She’d never been terribly religious.

“No,” she said finally. “I don’t suppose it does.”


End file.
